


Mind Tricks

by goldheart



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Clubbing, DJ Otabek Altin, M/M, OtaYuri Week, OtaYuri Week 2017, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Preconcieved assumptions, Underage Drinking, Yep it's one of those fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 20:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9843965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldheart/pseuds/goldheart
Summary: Yuri assumes that Otabek is the kind of person who turns his nose up at modern day music and spends his free time in Almaty by himself, reading classic literature and artfully serenading the night by playing the piano into the early hours. He is wrong.For Otayuri Week 2017, Day 1: First Times. In fact, it's a multitude of first times: First time wearing proper makeup, first time sneaking into a club, first time drinking with others, first time realising your best friend is fucking hot, first time witnessing said hot best friend exceeding the levels of cool thought possible byman—This fic has been translated into Spanish by the amazing Reddish_Venom. Encuentre la traducciónaquí.





	

**Author's Note:**

> General warnings: Underage drinking, pressuring a friend to drink, a drunk, horny teenager with the hots for his older best friend, panty-droppingly hot DJs (just one, really).

Since the first moment Yuri can remember laying eyes on him, he’s thought that Otabek Altin is the textbook definition of _cool._ Behind most of Yuri’s pointed insults and prickly first woods lies genuine interest—unless it comes to JJ fucking Leroy, of course, but that’s a different story. But any guy who can arrive from the airport in a leather jacket and a scarf, exhausted from travel, and still manage to look like the hottest shit on the block? Yeah, he’s cool.

Notably, the thing that separates someone like JJ from someone like Otabek is how he does it, of course. JJ is loud, flamboyant, and obnoxiously arrogant about how cool he seems to think he is. Otabek doesn’t need to do that. Yuri learned that very quickly the moment Otabek first opened his mouth: When you’re truly cool, you don’t need to say it. You just radiate coolness.

Yuri thinks Otabek is the kind of cool who constantly looks badass but secretly religiously listens to tasteful music and composes orchestral pieces in his free time. He just has that _air,_ you know? As biased as he is—Oh, come on, Otabek swooped in like a tall, dark, handsome stranger on a fucking motorcycle to rescue him, how is he supposed to be _un_ biased—he assumes this to be true. Of course Otabek reads classic novels and sits at a grand piano, playing an artful, calm rendition of Clair de Lune for his elegant mother and sisters. Obviously. That just seems like the kind of person he is.

Later, he catches Otabek wrinkling his nose at the repetitive, bubbly American pop song they’re playing at the rink during clean-up. Yep, he’s certain of it. He has Otabek pinned down as a music snob, cool and classy.

For some reason, Katsudon’s annoying friend and his two lackeys have decided to latch onto Yuri. Yuri thinks that they’re trying to leech victory out of him like it’s something they could actually steal by constantly hanging off him and snapping photos, even the quiet, sweet little Chinese one. Yuri feels like he could actually make him cry if he kicks him. Maybe it’s because they’re young and Yuri’s younger and they assume that automatically makes them best friends. It’s annoying as fuck, especially with Phichit acting like the wacky, cool aunt of their forced little group, and Yuri would ditch them immediately if Phichit hadn’t promised to sneak Yuri into a club with them… to celebrate flower boy’s late birthday, apparently. Yuri had pounced at the chance.

The thudding of the bass in the club announces its location before the four of them round the corner of the block. Between the American boy’s—Leo, Yuri finally makes the effort to recall—hidden talent with hairspray, Phichit’s admittedly frighteningly wizard abilities with an eyeliner pencil, and the leather pants, fingerless gloves, and combat boots Yuri _swears_ he bought on a whim and _not at all_ because his new best friend’s fashion sense is badass, they’ve actually managed to make him look like less of a prepubescent girl and more like someone not only smoking hot, but also old enough to have actually been to a club before. It’s enough that the bouncer only squints at him for a moment and offers no more than a passing glance at his fake ID, not like he’d actually try to decipher the Russian card anyways and figure out if it’s legit, before he waves all of them in.

It’s overwhelming, to say the least. Yuri’s never been inside a place like this: Dark, lit only by purple lights, packed nearly to the gills with people bumping, grinding, laughing, the floor vibrating with the bass. Phichit giggles at Guang-Hong’s fluttering shyness and drags him off towards the bar, leaving Leo and Yuri to trail after them. Leo, looking remarkably at home in the pulsating lights despite being underage in his home country, bumps his shoulder against Yuri’s and grins.

‘Come on, Russia,’ he says gamely. ‘You look like you’re gonna leap out of your socks. Loosen up a little.’

He passes over a beer Phichit hands him first before needling Guang-Hong until the Chinese boy finally laughs and downs his entire glass in one go. Then another. Then Leo presses a shot glass into his palm and Guang-Hong swallows the contents of that too, giggling past the burn. Yuri realises his jaw is hanging open and he shuts it with a click before glancing apprehensively at the froth at the top of his drink. It’s not like he’s never had a beer before, but he doesn’t trust these fuckers, especially with Phichit grinning at him like the Chesire cat and Guang-Hong already starting to sway.

Then the music changes. Suddenly it’s… not good. No, that’s an understatement; it’s awful. All four of them glance over at the table, where a girl in a low-cut shirt and her girlfriend hanging off her bare waist is giggling and failing miserably at DJing correctly. The crowd’s mostly too drunk to care, but a couple people raise loud complaints over the din of poorly mixed music and the girl starts shouting back at them.

‘Open DJ night,’ someone behind Yuri’s left shoulder says sympathetically.

Without a word, Yuri downs his drink like the goddamned hot-blooded Russian man he is and slams the glass on the nearest table. The other three skaters cheer. Yuri regrets his decision for a good fifteen seconds until it finally sets in that no, he’s not about to get mauled by his new companions while he’s drunk. The music shifts from shitty to… not bad, Yuri supposes. The girlfriend’s taken over. Or maybe it’s just the alcohol.

He never said his tolerance was high.

‘Dance with me,’ Guang-Hong whines, shedding his shyness like a snakeskin that threatens to give Yuri nightmarish flashbacks to the Sochi Grand Prix banquet and a certain disgusting Japanese skater. Guang-Hong latches onto Leo’s arm and hauls him bodily into the fray. Phichit gleefully snaps photos of the drunken Chinese boy doing something sinful with his hips that makes Yuri want to both throw up and save it as reference so he can fight for dancing dominance later.  If there even is a later. Right now, Yuri’s debating between just going back and grumbling his way through the night or joining Phichit in gathering blackmail material. Leo looks all too pleased that Guang-Hong refuses to let go of his hand.

The mediocre music lulls for a moment. Then it shifts into something _good._ The crowd raises a cheer of approval at the figure who’s taken over the table with the cool ease of an expert. It’s too dark for Yuri to get a clear look at the DJ, but whoever it is is shorter, stockier, male, and he knows what he’s doing. Fucking saviour. _This_ is something that makes him want to dance, slip into the persona of the leopard on the prowl, winding and sinuous. Later’s starting to seem more and more like now… Yeah, now seems like a good time to go test that out. Yuri flicks his ponytail and saunters into the crowd to fucking dance.

Now it’s a competition with a proper background track. Yuri will dance sexier, hotter, _better_ than fucking Ji Guang-Hong or die trying. Ballet’s gifted him fluidity with the sway of his hips, the curl of his wrists. Watching Katsudon skate the Eros routine has taught him how to seduce an audience with his eyes alone. No one’s watching when he starts, but he feels the eyes drawn to him like magnets when he gets going, the alcohol fuelling him to do the very sort of things he’d just been metaphorically gagging at Leo and Guang-Hong for doing. It sends a thrill up his spine. He’s not drunk off of what he was drinking; he’s drunk off of the attention, even when he brushes past Leo and Guang-Hong dancing, ah… close. He doesn’t want to think about what he just saw, so he just dances the thought away.

He grinds, bounces, and swerves his way closer to the table to get a better look at the guy who singlehandedly saved the night from mediocrity. The DJ’s sporting a black t-shirt just tight enough to show off how fit he is, dextrous fingers artfully splayed across the turntables, completely lost in the music. Yuri feels his mouth go dry as his eyes track up the man’s torso, right up until he reaches a strong jaw, stronger eyebrows, eyes rimmed in smudged, dark kohl, an inky undercut artfully styled to the side. Fuzzily, he thinks that eyeliner immediately makes just about everyone fifteen times hotter. The DJ? Hot as sin.

It must be the alcohol that makes the realisation hit him like a goddamned train about five seconds too late. There’s no other explanation for why it takes him so long to recognise that the DJ, large headphones looped around his neck, hips swaying sensually to his own beat, sweat glistening at his barely-exposed collarbones from the heat of so many bodies in such a small space, is Otabek fucking Altin.

Never has Yuri been glad to be so completely wrong. Calm, quiet, composed, classy Otabek, while admittedly very awesome, disappears from Yuri’s mind with what he’s sure is an audible, satisfying pop. Music snob his pretty ass, erase every record of him saying Otabek was the shit before he knew about this—this is the _fucking coolest thing he’s ever witnessed in his life._ Yuuko’s nosebleeding suddenly makes five times more sense. If Katsudon was here, he might have a heart attack. Mila would melt into a puddle of helpless want. JJ, Yuri thinks somewhere in the back of his muddled mind, would spontaneously combust over how much he sucks compared to Otabek, perfect motherfucker who can be the tall, dark stranger who rescues people like Yuri on his motorcycle, and, oh yeah, is a goddamned master DJ.

There’s suddenly a name he wouldn’t dare say for the confusing feelings Yuri’s been repressing since Barcelona once he manages to link ‘Incredibly hot DJ I would gladly grind upon’ and ‘Otabek Altin, best friend’ as one and the same in his head, and once it clicks, he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Panic? Act? Flee? Ignore it?

‘Is that Otabek?’ Phichit shouts on cue over the music, sidling up to Yuri’s side. At that, Otabek’s eyes go alert as he seeks out the source, right up until his eyes land on Yuri, who suddenly feels exposed in his too-tight leather pants and his eyeliner. This is where he tenses up and spits something insulting in defence, even over the heavy thud of the bass. This is where he flees into the crowd and finds an exit faster than you can say ‘men's singles figure skating.’ This is where he scrubs all of the sweat and makeup off of his face, peels off his pants, shreds them, and vows never to mention this ever again. However, after a moment, Otabek grins at him, eyes bright and smile suggestive. He leans forward and gestures for Yuri to join him with a crook of his finger, head tilted just a little bit, hips still moving to the beat.

The scenario flashes through Yuri’s head in quick bursts of half-formed fantasies he didn’t know he was capable of imagining. Everything around him seems to slow down as he digests the images: Otabek guiding Yuri’s hand to the turntables, his breath hot against Yuri’s skin as he offers instruction. Otabek slipping his headphones over Yuri’s ears, shutting out the rest of the club and drowning him in music. Otabek dropping one hand to Yuri’s hip, fingers settling right at the hem of his low-hanging, sweat-slicked leather pants, teasing at his skin. The press of Otabek’s chest against his back, his arms bracketing Yuri’s from behind like the shitty DJ and her handsy girlfriend, but fifteen billion times better. Yuri daringly rolling his hips against Otabek’s, reaching back to curl his fingers into Otabek’s masterfully styled hair and tug. He can almost hear the shocked, heady little gasp Otabek will offer at that, breath heavy, pupils blown wide, those smokey eyes half-lidded and smouldering and—

Yuri has never moved so quickly in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> (You think the title's clever but it's a Bassnectar mix >.>)
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr at [russianfeya.tumblr.com](russianfeya.tumblr.com).  
> The author is a whore for comments and will turn into a puddle of goo when she sees yours (˃̶͈̀＿˂̶͈́)੭ꠥ⁾⁾  
> P.S. If there's enough interest, I'll continue with the next First Times of this story, if you know what I mean.  
> P.P.S. I was reminded that I did art for this fic, and hence, [DJ Otabek](http://russianfeya.tumblr.com/post/157260361787/badboy-dj-otabek-is-ruining-my-life-and-yuris)


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